


Phone Boxes and Other Meeting Places

by kittensandcake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Awkward, I had to do this alright, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:20:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensandcake/pseuds/kittensandcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John only wanted to use the phone box for God's sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phone Boxes and Other Meeting Places

The humble telephone box was something every single person has come across at least once in their life. Be it a shiny new plastic one that just appeared by a train station or a pub, or the classic red ones that stood in rows along London streets, looking as ordered and bright as the Buckingham Palace guards. All had one simple purpose; to call people. Put money in, pick up the phone, dial, and then leave. Really, it wasn't rocket science. Yes they were used in rougher places for smoking and whatnot, but nearer the centre of London they were still used for their original purpose. John had a phone - Harry had given it to him after Clara and her had been in an argument, the fourth one that month - but when a mobile has no credit or battery life left, there really isn't a choice but to seek out a phone box. 

John checked his phone once again in the hope that there might just be some life left in the thing yet, but yet again he was greeted by a black screen. The keys didn't light up, there was no tone that signalled it coming on. Nope. It was completely and utterly dead. The only way it could be more dead would be if he took out the battery itself and crushed it. Or dropped the phone, which was becoming increasingly more likely as he grew more and more impatient and irritated with the thing. Technology wasn't his strong point. He had to call his landlord, and as he was roughly six miles from his flat, with just enough money to get a cup of tea - nowhere near enough to get a cab - John had just one option.   
Limping across the pavement, John pushed the door to a phone box open and shut it behind him, digging out the change he had left in his pocket. One phone call, a few minutes, and then he'd be able to stay for a few weeks longer. Good. Army pensions were bloody useless; he could only afford a stupidly tiny, open-plan flat on the edge of London. But at least it was a place of his own; there was no way in hell he'd be going back home, or - God forbid - live with Harry and Clara for a while. He had to be on his own. 

"Hello?" John swallowed after punching in the number, pursing his lips a little. "Oh yeah, Oliver, hi, yeah, it's John. John Watson? Yeah I live in 405, I was just going to call about the re-" There was suddenly someone behind him at the door, yanking it open and stealing the phone out of John's hand. "What the bloody hell? I was using tha-" John growled as a man pushed into the cubicle, the door shutting behind them. In a flash, the phone was back down, the man had forced a couple of coins into the meter and a number was punched in with quick, long fingers, the man's eyes fixed on the glass and the world outside. 

"Lestrade? Yes, it's me, I'm calling from a phone box. I'm out, I couldn't risk using my mobile...yes, yes I've got all you need, you can move in right now and arrest them, it was the concierge, he had been sleeping with the man for weeks prior to the murder, and the man's wife told him to-" 

John stiffened as he was pushed up against the wall, glaring at the man who had taken his phone. Who the hell was Lestrade? Why couldn't he risk his mobile? And why the hell had this man forced himself into a phone box that was (quite obviously) already in use?

John cleared his throat as he adjusted the cane by his side, waiting for the man to realise there was someone else in there with him. And eventually, he did, looking down and blinking owlishly. "Right, uh...now you have everything you need. Excuse me, there's a man in my phone box for some reason," The phone was taken away from the man's ear, and he ended the call without putting the receiver down. "Did you want something?"

"I was here first, you prick. I have to call my bloody landlord, didn't you see there was someone else in here?" John snapped, very aware of the man's eyes flickering over his features. It was...strange. He wasn't looking at him in the same way that John was used to being looked at. It was as if he was under a microscope, with the big, blinding light focused on him and picking out every single detail about himself, all while the man beside him drank it in. 

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"You don't get paid enough, do you?" 

John blinked. His head tilted to the side as his hand took a better grip of his cane before he finally worked up the nerve to speak again. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't get paid enough. Army pension, is it? You probably do have a phone but who can afford the charges these days? You need to call your landlord, probably on the verge of being evicted, and he goes home at usual working hours. Otherwise you wouldn't be so worried about making this call," 

"I don't even know who the bloody hell you are, but how the hell did you know all of that?" 

The man across from him smirked, his full lips curving up as he properly set the phone down, eyes passing over John again before he leaned back a little. If it weren't for the coat, John realised that the man would be skinny as hell, and he had a feeling that they would have both been able to stand quite happily in the phone box without being practically chest-to-chest. He was tall as well. Damn. 

"I saw it. Limping, short hair cut, standing straight and with tan lines on your wrists...Afghanistan or Iraq?" His voice seemed lower, and there was almost a cruel edge to it. Was he trying to get rid of him? Not bloody likely. John needed to call Oliver before six, and it was already edging closer and closer to the time. 

"Afghanistan. I just got back, I...you saw all of that, and just guessed?" John couldn't really believe that the man had, and there was an insidious feeling creeping up his spine, as if he was being watched by someone. 

"Deduced, actually. Had a feeling, Iraq veterans tend to have slightly darker completions after a while. And I guessed the landlord part from what I heard before I got in. 405? That's probably the Hawkeshead building, just south of-"

"Yes, fine, I get it," John waved his hand and swallowed, letting his own gaze move over the man. Oh. Christ. John had vehemently told himself that he was straight ever since he had seen what happened when Harry had come out to his father, ignoring the stir in his stomach whenever he saw a particularly good-looking man in public, but he couldn't deny himself fully. And this man was gorgeous. A head of artfully tousled curls - no-one had hair that good - sharp eyes, high cheekbones and soft, plush looking lips. He looked like a male model for God's sake. A male model who had his warm body pressed fairly close to his own. John was momentarily taken aback before he found his voice again, and rolled his shoulders back in preparation. "Can I make my call? Like you said, landlord issues,"

"Oh, I believe I can solve them," The man replied, waving his hand absently. He didn't seem to care that they were still pretty much flush together in the box, and John was just glad that there didn't seem to be anyone moving around outside. 

"Solve my landlord issues? I barely know you, and it's not as if it's your proble-"

"I have a very good landlady," The man continued, looking past John's head and out onto the street for a couple of seconds. "Gives me a reduced rate, her husband was on the death row in Florida,"

"You got him off?" 

"Oh no," The smirk on the man's lips was sharp and dangerous, and John was irritated when he found himself being more and more drawn to the inconsiderate, but fascinating man. "I ensured he stayed there until his demise. Which is why she gives me a reduced rate. It's a lovely little place in the middle of London, I think if we shared the rent not only would you not have to deal with your landlord any more, but you'd also need to pay less and you can find out more about how I know things about you just by looking at you," The man's smirk was gone, but there was still a very pleased look on his face. "I get my brother off my back too. I play the violin, by the way. At all hours. And sometimes I go for days without talking," 

John was speechless as he watched the man, pretty sure his lips were parted and there was an unbecoming puzzled expression on his face. "Why are you telling me that?"   
"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, hm?" The man straightened out the scarf around his neck and pushed the phone box door open, looking as if he had to go. 

"But I don't even know your name, or where you live," John replied in exasperation, thoroughly confused at the twist his evening had taken. For God's sake, he had only wanted to call his landlord about the rent, not suddenly have someone - very attractive - push into the phone box with him and then offer him a place to live. But then the man was grinning back at him, and John was certain he heard shouting from down the road. 

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Now, if you'll excuse me, I stole some evidence from a suspect and I believe they've discovered that it's missing," He winked at John and was gone. The doctor leaned out of the box to watch as a blur of long legs and coat disappear around a corner, just as another man sprinted past him, looking as if he was from the hotel just across the street. John stared for quite some time, even after the pair had gone, just wondering what the hell had happened. After a few minutes, he turned back to the phone, sliding his last few coins into it and picking up the receiver. "Hi, yeah, sorry I had an incident with the phone. Just calling to say, well..." John peeked out through the grubby glass in the direction Sherlock had run off in. "I'm going to have my stuff packed up tonight, and I'll be gone by tomorrow. Thanks," He put the phone down, walked out of the phone box, and started to limp away.

**Author's Note:**

> Literally a spur-of-the-moment ficlet, and mistakes or spelling errors please tell me, but otherwise I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
